


The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell

by EmmyJay



Series: Swords and Heroes and Other Broken Things [1]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angst, Ghirahim Is A Little Shit, Hate Sex, Link has issues, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex, Self-Loathing, Top Link, Wholly Imaginary Lubricant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 04:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16234022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyJay/pseuds/EmmyJay
Summary: On a cold stone temple floor, Ghirahim and Link have an encounter of an different sort.(Zelda would be ashamed of him.)





	The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell

**Author's Note:**

> I gave this a dubcon tag just in case. I think I made it pretty clear that Ghirahim is down for what happens, but Link doesn't exactly ask beforehand, so.
> 
> I'm not gonna lie to you, this is just porn. I didn't even bother to come up with a plausible set-up. There's no explanation, it just dives right in.

_The pretty things are going to hell  
They wore it out, but they wore it well_

\---

"Look at you."

Privately, Link thought Ghirahim made a better sight to look at: ashen skin glistening in the torchlight, mouth open and eyes lidded, hair splayed about his head like a halo. Were the hero more of a religious sort, he might have likened him to one of the legendary creations of the Goddesses—a vision made to inspire awe and command worship.

But there was nothing godly about the Demon Lord, pinned on his back by Link's knee on his chest; one of the boy's hands clenched on the stone floor beside his face while the other, lower, thrust a single finger inside, arm jerking with the indelicate motions. Link admittedly only just knew what he was doing, relying on gossip heard around the Academy, and the few dirty stories he'd perused in the privacy of his room. He knew enough to know this wasn't exactly right, that his actions were likely to hurt the other man ( _creature_ ) beneath him—but in the moment he could hardly bring himself to care.

He wanted this monster to hurt.

(He wanted to be the one to hurt him.)

"Is this how you like it?" Ghirahim continued undeterred, either ignorant or uncaring of Link's turmoil (though the hero suspected the latter). "Is this what gets you **hot** : having your victim utterly at your mercy, prying them open without regard or consideration?"

His mouth split into a grin that had too many teeth. "Is this how fantasize about fucking your _precious Spirit M_ —"

The rest of his musings were muffled, cut off by Link forcing his free hand over the other's mouth and jaw, grip hard enough that a normal creature would have surely bruised.

 _'Shut up,'_ he thought with teeth bared, confident that Ghirahim would understand him even without words. _'You talk too much.'_

That sinuous tongue caressed whorls against his palm, and Link had to fight the urge to yank his hand back. He settled for forcing another finger inside, and the demon's entire body seemed to seize, eyelids fluttering in a way that was inexplicably obscene.

A third finger soon joined the others, too harsh and too quickly, but Ghirahim's body opened around him nonetheless. A glance down quickly found where the demon was pierced, the flesh stretched open, and Link watched, entranced; staring as it clenched around his fingers; reveling in the way the demon's spine curved like a bow when he crooked them _just so_ , scream smothered by his palm. Ghirahim writhed below him, and the hero found himself in awe of the barely-restrained strength there: how easily he lifted both of them with just the cant of his hips, his every movement threatening to send him flying.

He was strong, Link realized; he could stop him easily, break free of his hold any time he wished. The only way Ghirahim could possibly remain pinned to the floor was if he wanted to be there.

The thought alone made Link's blood boil with a heat that was not entirely anger, and he all but ripped his fingers free of the demon's body, fumbling one-handed with the laces of his trousers.

Despite Ghirahim's earlier insinuation, it was nothing like how he thought he would like to be with Zelda someday, on the few occasions he had dared to imagine it. Those fantasies had always been soft, filled with her tender smile and the sweet sound of her laughter; they would kiss, and whisper secrets, and touch each other gently. In his fantasies, Zelda would hold Link's face between her hands when she told him that she loved him.

But this was not a fantasy. And Ghirahim was not Zelda.

(Zelda would be ashamed of him.)

The initial penetration was painful: the flesh nowhere near stretched or wet enough, friction burning along Link's length as he speared the other open, and the clumsy thrusts that followed were much the same. It must have been infinitely worse for Ghirahim, couldn't _possibly_ have been enjoyable, but the demon only arched into the connection, moaning long and low against his hand as he was pierced again and again. His hips rolled into every thrust, taking all that Link had to give and still demanding **more** , leaving him feeling somehow inadequate.

He wondered, distantly, how much it would take to **truly** satisfy the demon.

Instinctively the hero grabbed one-handed at the other's hip, trying ( _failing_ ) to still those insistent movements, to regain some modicum of control; there was dampness against his other palm, from Ghirahim's breath or from drool he couldn't say. A similar moisture glistened at the hollow of the demon's throat, and without thinking he bent down to taste it, mouth automatically going to work: licking, biting, sucking, the skin strangely metallic-tasting under his tongue. Every scrape of teeth against flesh brought new sounds, scraps of noise escaping past his palm, each one more delicious than the last.

The movements between them became increasingly frantic, both growing desperate as they clawed toward the oncoming edge, and every time their hips met Link swore he felt his bones _crack_ against the other's insistent force. At the same time there was something building in his lower abdomen, a tightness and heat that was far from unfamiliar, but never before experienced at this level of intensity; something trying to drag him screaming downward with cold, greedy fingers.

Something that was going to devour him—one way or another.

A choked cry from beneath, the imprint of teeth against his palm, and then Ghirahim was coming, untouched between them, limbs thrashing erratically. His insides clenching down like a vice should have been agony, _was_ agony, yet somehow it dragged Link over the edge as well: every muscle in his body coiling tightly, straining with the intensity of his release, until suddenly they weren't and he slumped, boneless and breathing hard, singed all the way down to his core.

Dimly, Link was aware that he had landed solidly on top of Ghirahim, but he couldn't find the energy to care enough to move. The demon himself hardly seemed bothered; a moment later, and Link felt long fingers carding through his hair, blunt nails raking gently against his scalp. The strands _tugged_ with the lightest tinge of pain each time Ghirahim caught on a tangle, and the hero was suddenly acutely aware of how he hadn't touched anyone (hadn't **been** touched) except to hurt them in what felt like an age, even if in reality it had only been just under a month. His entire body thrummed with the contact, suddenly aching to be held like this, to be soothed, comforted, _loved_ —

But not by **him**.

It was easier to pull out than it was to push in, his length slick with seed and a hot stickiness that was something else (don't look, don't see, don't—). His fingers scrambled for purchase on the floor, pushing himself to his hands and knees and then to his feet, hurting in a way that was not wholly physical.

Below him, Ghirahim had not moved to rise. He remained as he was: lounging naked like a contented cat in the sun, stroking idle patterns through the spill across his chest and stomach, tongue lolling at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, Sky Child," he crooned, a lover on a lazy morning, "was it good for you?"

Somehow, those five words made Link feel dirtier than the sex ever could.

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics and title are from the David Bowie song. I regret nothing.
> 
> Comments and kudos give me life. <3


End file.
